


there's a religion in our love

by evewithanapple



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Arranged Marriage, Experienced/Inexperienced, F/F, Ritual Sex, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:41:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10686243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: A princess newly wed to a queen discovers her duties on her wedding night.





	there's a religion in our love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristesses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/gifts).



One of her ribbons is fraying; she’d twisted it around her finger one too many times. She’s had nothing to do but fuss with her ribbons since the end of the wedding banquet, when she was ushered to the royal chambers and instructed to wait for her bride. The customs of her new country dictate that the queen undertake a variety of rituals before consummating the marriage, and there is nothing for her to do but wait for them to be over.

She tries to pass the time in other ways; she looks around the room (not her permanent residence- the wedding chamber is consecrated specifically for tonight, and they will be removed to a different bedroom tomorrow) and takes stock of the furnishings and draperies. The people assigned to decorate evidently favour deep reds and purples: the bedcover and curtains are burgundy, the rug dark mulberry. The furniture is all carved mahogany, upholstered in scarlet velvet. Her own bridal gown is a much lighter periwinkle, but it still matches the colour scheme. She wonders what significance these colours have to her new country, if any. She wonders if her bride will tell her. Owing, once again, to custom, she learned very little of her bride-to-be before the wedding; the priests decided, arranged, and ordained the marriage. This evening will, in fact, be the first time they speak directly to each other without an audience. It makes her queasy to think of it.

She hears a noise outside in the hall and turns towards it. A clamour of bells and drums; this is the wedding procession, escorting her new wife to the bedchamber. She stands quickly, hands clasped in front of her, tucking the frayed ribbon out of sight just before the door bursts open. The dull roar of the crowd becomes a deafening outcry as a woman - _her wife_ – is pushed through the door, then fades just as quickly as the door is closed behind her. They are alone.

Her wife turns towards her, pushing back the veil that covers her face. This is the first time they have laid eyes on each other free of veils or screens, and it is difficult not to gawp. Her wife is older than her- perhaps five and fourty years- with faint threads of silver running through her burnished brown hair and lines around her mouth and eyes. _Laugh lines_ she thinks, hoping fervently that she’s right. The purpose of their alliance is to please their countries and the gods, but it would still be terrible to be shackled to a co-ruler with no sense of humour.

“Nuala.”

She blinks.

“My name is Nuala,” her wife repeats. She speaks slowly, as though uncertain of her partner’s grasp of the language. “Yours?”

She lets out the breath she was holding in a rush. “Tamar,” she says. “Or Neasa, if you prefer.”

Nuala raises an eyebrow, and she explains. “We are given new names when we are wed,” she says. “Ceremonial names. They are usually only used in ritual, but you may use mine, if you prefer. They chose a name of your language, to ease my passing into your lands.”

Nuala appears to consider this. “What would you prefer?”

Tamar blinks. No one has asked her that before. “I am used to Tamar,” she says. “If it pleases you to call me so.”

“It does.” Now Nuala is coming closer, circling her. Tamar can smell the spiced mead they drank at the wedding banquet, and other scents underneath it- perfume scented with pine needles and sweet maple. Her wife’s gown is a deep vermillion, and the neckline plunges so that Tamar can nearly see straight down her bodice. She blushes. Her own gown is also far from modest, but there is no point in trying to cover herself now- not when they are about to unclothe each other for the first time.

Nuala stops circling. “What preparation were you given for tonight? Did they offer you lessons?”

Once again, Tamar is lost. “Lessons . . .?”

Nuala clicks her tongue as though she were a teacher with a disappointing pupil. “For the bedchamber. Were you taught to perform?”

“Oh.” Now her blush spreads further, disappearing under her gown. “I was told- we will lie together. And the priests have prepared rituals to ensure that our coupling brings peace and stability to the kingdom. And it is my duty to submit.”

A frown appears between Nuala’s eyebrows. “But they did not prepare you for the act itself? What we must do to each other?”

“We must . . .” By all the gods above and below, this is awkward. She wishes she had been properly prepared; that way she wouldn’t appear so foolish. “Touch each other?”

Nuala makes another clicking noise with her tongue. “Turn around.”

Tamar does as she is told, and only starts a little when she feels Nuala’s hands pulling at the back lacings of her gown. Whoever designed these wedding outfits was apparently in love with strings and ribbons; her clothes are made of nothing but. It surprises her, then, when Nuala makes quick work of them and pulls her outer dress to the floor in a puddle, leaving Tamar in her shift. “Now it is your turn.”

They both turn around, and Tamar undoes the ties of Nuala’s gown with trembling fingers. Each untied knot reveals an expanse of smooth, pale skin underneath, and part of her wants to touch it and see what it feels like. Would it be marble? Velvet? Silk? Nuala is warm, even unclothed; Tamar can feel the heat rising from her like steam. She shivers.

“Good,” Nuala says once Tamar had finished. “Now . . .” She turns to look Tamar over, and Tamar tries not to quail under her gaze. “Go and lie on the bed.”

Tamar does as she’s told, easing herself backwards until she’s resting on her back, her head propped up on the pillows. Nuala has moved across the chamber, rummaging in a trunk; Tamar can’t see what she’s doing. When she returns, she climbs onto the bed, kneeling with one leg on either side of Tamar’s waist. The front of her shift pushes out oddly, but Tamar can’t figure out why.

“Lovely girl,” she says, reaching down to smooth a hand over Tamar’s hair. Tamar shivers again. The sense of heat is growing stronger, and it’s started to build inside of her, too. Their shifts are so thin, it’s nearly as good as being naked; she can see the pinkness of Nuala’s nipples through the fabric, hard and poking against her shift. She wants to reach up and touch them, but she’s afraid of moving and disturbing the ritual somehow. Instead, she stays put as Nuala’s hand strays across her face, her neck, her collarbone, and finally caresses her nipples through her shift. A shock of sensation flashes through her, and she gasps.

“Good,” Nuala says. The praise makes Tamar’s skin prickle hotly all over. She reaches down and takes hold of the hem of Tamar’s shift, pulling it up; Tamar obliges her by lifting her shoulders off of the bed so that the garment can be removed and discarded. Her skin pebbles with gooseflesh in the chill of the room, and she fights the urge to smooth a hand over her breasts to warm herself. Nuala takes pity on her, caressing the skin of her breasts and stomach. She leans down and plants kisses on the dip of her collarbone and the hollow between her breasts. Tamar’s skin grows slick under her ministrations, both from the moisture of her lips and the sweat that rises and beads on her skin- not from exertion (for she hasn’t had cause to move) but from the heat of their bodies pressed together. She shifts, raising one knee, and finds something unexpected and hard pressed against her inner thigh.

Nuala laughs at her expression, then leans back and pulls her own shift over her head. Underneath, she is nude, save for a harness around her hips that holds a long, narrow piece of what looks like ivory. Tamar reaches out cautiously and runs a finger down the side; it is carved with sigils and runes she doesn’t recognize.

“This part of the ritual isn’t often spoken of publicly,” Nuala explains. “But it’s been anointed and blessed, the better to consecrate our union. You understand?”

Tamar looks at the ivory- a phallus, she recognizes now, or something meant to stand in for one. She recalls talk of what would be done when a man and woman married, what acts the husband would perform on his wedding night and how the wife would accede to him. “Yes.”

Nuala touches the side of her face in a way that’s almost tender. “It will not hurt,” she says. “You may even find it pleasant. Many do. Now . . .”

She takes both of Tamar’s hands and places them against her breasts. Tamar gasps, feeling the soft skin give against her touch. Nuala gasps as well, and rocks her hips. Tamar wonders what she can feel of the phallus- is part of it inside her? What does she gain from the act, apart from completing the ritual? Does this please her? It seems to, but she can’t be sure.

“Ahhhh,” Nuala breathes, eyes glittering. She leans backwards, and Tamar’s hands fall to her waist. “Yes, good. That’s good.” She drops a hand to rest on the mound between Tamar’s legs and runs her fingers through her curls. Tamar can’t help but shudder underneath her touch, especially when Nuala’s fingers slip between her lips to run at her skin until it’s hot and wet. She lets her legs fall open, the better for Nuala to touch her, and Nuala smiles as though she’s pleased. She rises up on her knees, taking her hand away; Tamar hardly has time to be disappointed at the loss before Nuala grasps the ivory between her legs and guides it to rest against Tamar, pushing it inside her.

Tamar squeaks. It’s slightly painful at first, then it only feels strange- the coolness of the ivory contrasts sharply to the heat of Nuala’s skin. But the ivory begins to warm quickly once it’s inside her, and Tamar shifts her hips experimentally, wondering what it is that women find enjoyable about this activity. Should she be doing something different? Should she-

No sooner has the thought crossed her mind than Nuala begins to rock her hips, and then Tamar cries aloud. The movement of the phallus inside her answers all of her questions and more; it’s hitting a spot inside her (did Nuala position herself to do that on purpose?) that sends pulses of heat through her body with every stroke. Nuala has braced herself on her arms above Tamar, and her eyes are closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure as she thrusts. Tamar, who has nothing else to do with her hands, reaches up to touch Nuala’s breasts again, and her wife groans aloud, thrusting faster. Tamar thinks _harder_ and doesn’t know how to say it, but she begins to rock her own hips up to meet Nuala’s thrusts, pushing her even deeper inside her body. She locks her legs around Nuala’s waist, crossing her ankles at her back, and humps up off the bed, crying out again and again as the heat inside her mounts. Nuala throws her head back with a cry as her thrusting grows erratic and she shakes against Tamar’s legs. Tamar herself feels the head build in her stomach until it splits apart into fireworks, sending sparks of pleasure shooting into every corner of her body. She cries out, her back arching and her head thrown against the pillows. It seems to go on forever.

When the haze finally clears, she finds that Nuala has withdrawn from her and lies on the bed beside her, chest still heaving with exertion. The phallus is still strapped against her, and it glistens with wetness- _her_ wetness, Tamar realizes. Nuala turns her head towards Tamar, smiling with satisfaction.

“Well,” she says. “We are truly wed now.”

Tamar blinks; she had briefly forgotten the purpose of their coupling entirely. “Oh,” she says. “You . . . enjoyed it?”

Nuala laughs, a rich, golden sound. “I did,” she says. “I take it you did as well?”

“Oh yes,” Tamar says earnestly. Nuala laughs again; Tamar thinks she might be laughing at her, but not unkindly. She hesitated before asking “Is that . . . all we are meant to do?”

“Oh, no.” Nuala’s smile broadens. “No, not at all.” She reaches down and undoes the strap holding her harness in place, letting the ivory fall away. Tamar is disappointed, but only briefly, for then Nuala rises to her knees and swings one leg over Tamar so that she straddles her. “There is more,” she says, “much more. And if you do not know, I suppose I must teach you.”

Tamar catches her breath. Marriage, she thinks, is already shaping up to be far more pleasurable than she expected.


End file.
